


of snowballs and sleeplessness

by gumdropsngunshots (orphan_account)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Capes, Fluff, M/M, both him and his sugar addiction, prompt, tim needs to get more sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/gumdropsngunshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This has been a very bad week and you just grabbed the last box of my favorite comfort food at the supermarket” AU</p><p>Tim felt nothing.</p><p>There was nothing left.</p><p>He covered his face with his hands and let out a shuddering sigh that was more like a wail.</p><p>“Kid?” a rumbling tenor asked, uncertain. “Are, uh… You okay there?”</p><p>Tim just slumped even further and sighed again, this one shaking his shoulders and racking his body.</p><p>“Oh my God, are you CRYING?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	of snowballs and sleeplessness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://ironinkpen.tumblr.com/post/111911630017/please-consider).

It was half past six in the morning, but the moon was still high in the sky and seemed to have no intention of climbing down anytime soon. Because, as was evident by this night and all the nights this month previous to it, _that’s how winter in Gotham works._

Nights were long and hard and cold and the only thing keeping people sane was… Well, nothing. Because everybody in Gotham was certifiably off their rockers and all the money in Fort Knox couldn’t possibly be enough to pay for that much therapy.

Tim was no stranger to Gotham’s winter nights. He was no stranger to hard weeks. In fact, he was practically best friends with the two with how often they met. Unfortunately, familiarity did not make it any easier. And the fact that the _tough week_ was melting into _tough month_ and made everything seem like _tough life with no visible light at the end death is the only release_ made it even worse.

Tim had been put on _eleven_ , mark that, _eleven_ of the twelve tasks his group of six was to complete for the midterm project. He thanked the universe he didn’t have to present on top of researching, recording, designing, Power Point-ing, murdering, researching, and writing the paper because if he did anymore he might actually kill someone. (Tim would admit he was starting to lose it. Between the three hours of sleep, seven pots of coffee, and uncounted shots of the banana, egg, 5 Hour Energy, and extra-infused espresso concoction Bart “Literal Embodiment of Hyper” Allen had christened Suicides, his head was not quite on his shoulders.) And, honestly, the only reason he’d accepted the burdens laid one by one on his shoulders was because everybody in his group was an idiot. And Tim desperately didn’t want to fail.

In fact, since the semester in that class had sucked so much, as the biggest “fuck you” he could give, Tim wanted to _succeed._

And to succeed, he could not waste time on things as trivial as food.

He’d gone the past two (three? Four? He hadn’t checked the calendar in a while) days running on nothing but caffeine and spite, and now that his trials and tribulations had passed and the project had been finally emailed to his group, he was going to treat himself to some _Snowballs, goddamn it._

Tim marched (re: dragged) himself to the supermarket just a fifteen minute’s walk off of campus in the freezing cold with a purpose, like a highly trained soldier, or a robot programmed with only one function. His target? The only person who had never left him, not once, in all his eighteen years. The only person who really _got him._ Who _understood_ and allowed him to indulge himself without passing judgement. Beautiful, sweet, loving, constant. _Little Debbie._

He was going to get a Snowball if it killed him. With the weather as it was, it just might have. Venturing out into a Gotham winter night with nothing but the oversized sweater he’d been stretching out and living in for the past few days was not a smart decision on his part. But, inebirated on determination and with the tangible aura of an exhusted undergrad student, Tim had managed to get to the Walmart, slightly blue, but generally in one piece.

Tim squinted at the flourescent light past the automatic doors like it was something he’d never seen before, and after tipping his head to the greeter, he pushed on to the aisle with snack foods.

Freedom. Sanctuary. Valhalla. Tim could practically feel the cold sensation of something mostly sugar and partially lab-made chemicals but one-hundred percent delicious filling his stomach. He was close.

Then Tim’s phone buzzed and he wanted to scream.

 _Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away,_ he thought, clinging to denial like it was the last life vest on the Titanic.

He waited a beat, in the middle of the baked goods section, and let out a breath when no other noises came from his phone. He’d made it halfway to the Cookies/Crackers aisle when it went off twice more.

Tim’s shoulders slumped dramatically and he tipped his head to the too bright lights, mouthing “Why me?” to the ceiling as if it would provide some glorious insight as to why his life sucked so bad. Conceding, Tim pulled his phone out and fumbled to type in the PIN with no feeling in his fingers.

There were three texts total, from two people. One of which was someone in his group, and the other, his professor.

 _Just a reminder, Programming II students,_ his professor’s text read, _that the missed class from the snowstorm we had last week is going to be made up this morning at eight. Be prepared!_

Tim nearly dropped dead right there. A class, in nearly an hour and a half. He could make it, sure, but he’d have to make his purchase fast, run home, and maybe sneak in a fifteen minute nap or a shower. Tim sniffed the sleeve of his sweater. Unfortunately, it would have to be a shower.

He'd also probably make it through the class, but three hours of sleep in three days- soon to be four- was not going to be fun.

Then Tim forced his stiff, jean-clad legs to move while he opened the other texts.

_heyy partner ;P sorry but i didnt get ur email my laptop is broken. also, me and jake and jackson and the others all went to hella party last night were super hngover can u do the presentation for us??_

The last one simply read, _thx :D._

Tim saw red. A flash of anger, of burning, of human savagery, but he curled it all up into a tight little ball and pushed it down, deep.

He slowly put his phone in his pocket before he did something dangerous and expensive to it. He took in a slow, deep breath through his nose, just like his high school guidence counselor taught him to do. _One problem at a time,_ Tim told himself.

He had basically zero sleep.

He had a class in less than two hours.

He had to do the presentation.

He was going to have five bodies to hide.

But before all that, he was going to get at least five Snowballs. Maybe six. Probably six.

He took one more glance at the texts to make sure he didn’t just hallucinate them (Suicides tended to do that to you after a couple blenders full).

Yeah, Tim had better make that six.

He turned on Do Not Disturb because _no more bad news this morning, oh, no, not for me,_ and thought of Little Debbie, who would never go out to parties on a Sunday before a presentation was due because she was just kindhearted and considerate like that, to distract himself from his inevitable demise.

He made it to the snack aisle later than he’d thought, partially because he’d entered through the home and gardening center instead of the actual front entrance to get to heating as soon as he could.

That was okay, though.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

He was going to eat some goddamn Snowballs with the pink coconut flakes and gooey marshmallow center and it was going to be freaking delicious. He could even microwave one and make it even gooey-er. And nothing else mattered.

At this point, that thought was the only thing keeping him going.

The Little Debbie section was just at the other end of the aisle and all Tim had to do was-

Huh.

There was another man, probably older than Tim, coming from the other side.

Tim wondered why anyone in their right mind would be going for snacks at six thirty in the morning, but then remembered himself and brushed it off. The taller man didn’t _look_ sleep-deprived, though, just the bone-deep kind of tiredness and indifference that sank into your cheekbones and seeped into your spine that anyone in Gotham had.

Tim continued to make observations of the newcomer as he beelined for where the Snowballs were. Unfortunately, it seemed like there was only one package. That stank, but Tim would just have to grab some knock off Twinkies on his way out.

The man had a leather jacket draped over one arm, which was probably smarter than Tim’s own choice of protection against the cold. He had nice arms, too, the closer Tim got. Arms that were reaching for the last…

Time slowed. Tim sprinted. The man reached. Grabbed. Took. _Thieved._

And Tim, who was just paces away, simply collapsed to his knees.

This was when the man who probably steps on puppies in his free time and drinks children’s tears finally took notice of him, the last package of Snowballs still visible in his hand like he was _flaunting_ it, the bastard.

The anger resurfaced, a flurry of _god fucking dammit_ and _how fucking dare you do you have any idea the crap I’ve put up with?_ Scarlet and murder and was the floor spinning?

But then, quick as it came...

Tim felt nothing.

There was nothing left.

He covered his face with his hands and let out a shuddering sigh that was more like a wail.

“Kid?” a rumbling tenor asked, uncertain. “Are, uh… You okay there?”

Tim just slumped even further and sighed again, this one shaking his shoulders and racking his body.

 _“Oh my God, are you crying?”_ The voice held concern, now, fear, like _what did I do wrong oh my God how do I make it stop?_

Tim was probably crying. He couldn’t tell. His fingers were still pretty numb.

Then, Tim supposed, he fell asleep on the floor, in the middle of the snack aisle, in front of the stranger he had just cried beside. He only supposed this because he has no memory of the event, and only the note by his bed in the dorm to prove that it ever happened.

 _You’re lucky I wasn’t a damn pervert,_ the surprisingly eloquent handwriting declared. _And you’re lucky my friend Dick knows Wally who knows your friend, Bart. Three degrees of separation and all that shit._

 _Your programming class was cancelled again due to weather. (You seriously take programming_ _II_ _? You’re like, a fetus. And freshman. You must be a freak super genius. Or a nerd.) And Bart says that the presentations in your other class ran long so your group can go next class._

_I had to rifle through your wallet to get your address and key. They should be on the table by the door._

Then a final note, at the bottom margin, squeezed tight like an afterthought.

_The name’s Jason. Now get some fucking sleep, Tim._

There was a package of Snowballs under the note.

Tim curled up under his comforter, still in his ratty sweater, and did just that.

... After texting Bart to see who this Jason guy was. And to see if he was single.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm trying out a new pseud to keep my accounts separate and (hopefully) organized. Maybe I'll actually post what I write on here. Also, holy cow this was a train wreck but I need to get back into writing and trying to keep with a posting schedule is the only way to force myself back into it. Wish me luck in the comments! Both those and kudos are highly appreciated!


End file.
